


Disappeared Without a Trace

by starluff



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Event, Community: watsons_woes, Frantic searching, Gen, freaking out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:12:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starluff/pseuds/starluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Watson actually does disappear in The Man With The Twisted Lip?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disappeared Without a Trace

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the practice prompt, In a Minor Key.

"Tell him that I have disappeared without a trace."

It is frightening how a simple joke can so easily become something horrible.

Holmes had disappeared, as he is wont to do, and Watson seemed irritated by his unexpected change of plan. I do not blame the doctor in the least; I myself felt a touch annoyed by the man; do we not at least deserve a note, warning us that he was unexpectedly employed? But I digress.

When Mrs. Whitney came, poor woman, all distraught with worry about her husband - well, I expected nothing less than what happened: the good Doctor insisted on Mrs. Whitney staying at Baker Street and he would find her husband by himself. I worried about him, of course; opium dens are not known for their safety. But Dr. Watson has proven himself, time and again, to be a very capable man and nothing would have prevented him from helping an old friend. So he left me with instructions to take care of the unfortunate Mrs. Whitney and, when I asked him what to tell Holmes should he return, to tell Holmes that he had "disappeared without a trace".

And so it was that when ten minutes passed and Holmes walked through the door, demanding to know where his chronicler was, I told him just as the doctor instructed me. I confess I felt some margin of satisfaction to tell that insufferable man what I usually had to tell the doctor and to see the momentary confusion on his face, before he figured out what had truly happened.

Little did either of us know that what I said was the truth.

After an hour had elapsed, during which I comforted Mrs. Whitney as best I could and harried Holmes about eating, a cabbie knocked on our door and dropped off a shamefully inebriated Mr. Whitney.

With no word from the doctor.

The poor cabbie; worried as I was about the doctor and keen as I was to find out what might have happened to him, even I thought that Holmes went a bit too far in his interrogation of the cabbie. I would not describe him as he was then as worried but more impatient and confused; he seemed to eager to start on some case or other with the doctor and being surprised was a feeling that Holmes did not relish, especially in regards to his friend. After harassing the cabbie, Holmes then proceeded to inspect the cab itself for any piece of information, though what he could possibly have wished to find, I cannot fathom. Seeming disappointed at his findings, still confused, and by now highly irritated, he all but forced the cabbie to take him to where he had last seen the Doctor, without a word or backwards-glance to me. I did not mind that in the least; it was Holmes's wont to forget such things when in the thrill of the chase, and the added detail about Doctor Watson made him quite blind to the rest of the world.

As for myself, there was nothing for me to do but go back inside and see what could be done about Mr. and Mrs. Whitney. After Mrs. Whitney assured me that she could take care of her husband and bring him and herself home, I called a cab for them and tried to find something to occupy my mind until Holmes returned with the Doctor, undoubtedly with some adventure to tell, or else just something as common place as getting lost.

But one hour became two; two became three. At the end of the third Holmes returned, and I knew before I even saw him that Watson was not there; there was only one set of footsteps, and they were quite rushed, taking the steps two or even three at a time. In rushed Holmes, and it was then that the first chip of worry was evident. He still seemed annoyed and confused, but that was shoved to the side so that he could focus on the problem at hand. He made some passing comment about how he wanted to find the Doctor so that they could start working on the fore-mentioned case as soon as possible, but it seemed as plain as day to me that that was only a facade. Holmes did not at all like this role-reversal that had happened, nor did he like the possibility that the Doctor might be in danger.

After collecting something or other, Holmes was out the door as quickly as he had come in. I prayed that night for the Doctor's safe return.

I awoke the next morning only to find the living room filled with smoke, and a thoroughly put-out consulting detective lounging in the armchair, smoking. It might have been an ordinary (well, ordinary for Holmes) sight, had he not been glaring quite viciously at the innocent wall and there was an added aggression to his actions that I had never seen before. Obviously, Holmes had not found the Doctor and, worse, he did not have any leads. I did not ask him if he would like to eat, for that would be like asking the sun if it would kindly rise in the west for once, and instead gave him some encouraging, if meaningless, words and a pat on the shoulder and left him.

For the next forty-eight hours, Holmes was either out or in his armchair, puzzling. The chip of worry had slowly but surely deepened into a crack, which was becoming bigger and bigger with every passing hour.

The great consulting detective was _worried._ It made a mere mortal such as myself on the very brink of panic; nothing but iron will kept me from falling.

He is sitting in his armchair now and I am almost afraid to enter; his piercing eyes have taken to glaring at the world and being the object of said glare is more than a little disconcerting. The room looks as if a paper blizzard had visited it: papers literally _covers_ the room, all the cabinet doors are open, and random articles of furniture are upturned and lying about. It seems that the room represents the state of mind of its occupant. I don't who I'm worried about more at this point; the missing Doctor or the self-destructive detective. No matter; there is only one that I can try to help.

I enter the room and Holmes only spares a glance in my direction. I carry in a tray of tea and some biscuits that I know will not be touched, but one must always try. I do not plan on staying, for I know my presence is unwelcome, but I do wish to convey that he is not alone right now. I put a hand on his shoulder and wait until his gaze slides up until it meets my eyes and I try not to flinch at their hardness; I know it is not aimed at me.

"You'll find him," I say, "I know you can."

I hold his gaze for a moment and I think that my words have no effect. Suddenly, Holmes's eyes clear and he is leaping out of the chair, saying something over his shoulder that I can't quite make out, and I hear the front door slam on his way out.

I can't help but believe that he won't be alone when he comes back.


End file.
